Thank you for being patient with me. I love you all x
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How do you tell someone you like that you may have fallen in love with them- that you could see the potential of taking that risk, of leaping that faith - when you know they're very much in love with someone else?
I wasn't sure that Bucky was in love with Coffee Girl. Louise, her name is Louise. I've been trying to remember her name because it feels a disservice not remembering her name. Like I'm not a girl's girl if I don't remember her name. You know when people deny to name something so it feels objective from you, put it outside of your bubble so it doesn't feel real, as if it's not happening, not really.
Like if I don't remember her name, I was being a horrible person denying her existence. So I do the opposite. I file as much information as I can about her.
She works at the coffee shop in front of the Anthropology Building with that warm, mustard wall that has this mural from an art student some few years ago. Their coffee cups have artsy hand-drawn prints of scrolls and dinosaurs.
I know what she looks like. I'm a girl. It's not that hard to stalk someone through social media by the sheer power of bouncing through friends list and tagged photos. I know she has dark curls and a gorgeous aquiline nose that she highlights with nose piercings. She's not devastatingly pretty, but it's enough for my fucked up head to imagine.
My false memories of them sitting on Bucky's threadbare couch with his infamous hot chocolate that hook lines all the ladies, one of his grandma quilts that his sister made, regaling her with the same stories he's told me and possibly everyone who has ever seen him pull it out (how Hermoine Choi is going through an intense knitting phase, how she's trying to figure out how to make stuffed toys and how happy she was at the links I sent Bucky of tutorials, how she promised to make me one too), and he looks at her and the moment feels right.
The day feels whole, a memory filing in the corners of sorrow-hewn existence. There's Bob Barker on the TV because for some reason, Bucky's cousin has DVD collections of game shows - and it's cold but they're warm, and he's stained by her lipstick, her grin marking him.
In my imagination, her preferred lipstick is a coral pink. Pretty. Simple. The Perfect Girl Next Door color. Her favorite canvas is Bucky's neck.
It's deep self-flagellation because if it was me, that would be my preferred canvas.
My own thoughts curse me. I felt the pang shudder all the way to my toes. It's self destructive but once your mind wanders, it's hard to stop. If I could bang my head against a wall and hope it works better, and you know, not get a concussion, it would be part of my daily routine.
